Children of the Revolution
by GorimJr
Summary: NEW AND IMPROVED: When the attempt to flee from the Moulin Rouge goes horribly wrong, Christian is carted back to England and Satine shuts down. But fate has a way of righting itself, and two decades later, the Duke is called back to the Moulin Rouge with the promise of new blood and the ending he feels he deserved. He brings his own kin with him, and the stars cross once again...
1. Prologue

_If I should die this very moment_

_I wouldn't fear_

_For I've never known completeness_

_Like being here_

_Wrapped in the warmth of you_

_Loving every breath of you_

Satine walked out of the Moulin Rouge. The beauty of the winter day was lost on her as she walked across the muddy street, towards Christian's apartment. As her heart pounded furiously in her chest, went up the stairs, her face a deceptive mask that hide the turmoil inside.

She opened the door and Christian looked up from his packing, his soft smile sliding off his face as he saw her cold look.

"What's wrong?" He asked, frowning. Satine's stomach plummeted. _Don't,_ her heart pleaded. _Please don't._

"I'm staying with the Duke," she lied. "After I left you, the Duke came to see me and he offered me everything. Everything I've ever dreamed of. He has one condition: I must never see you again." _You're heartless._

Christian stared at her, the words not sinking in. Only a vague look of confusion and hurt made tears tear at the back of her throat. A shaky smile came on his face, though the looks of hurt and shock were still there.

"What are you talking about?" He asked.

"You knew who I was," she said, turning away from him and towards the fireplace.

"What are you saying?" Christian asked, fear creeping into his tone. She was glad she'd turned away, or else he would have seen how like a knife in the gut his words were. "What about last night? What we said?" Satine turned to look at him, wiping the pain off of her face.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," she said. "The difference between you and me is that you can leave any time you choose. But this is my home." Her voice caught in her throat. "The Moulin Rouge is my home."

"There must be something else," Christian insisted, slowly wearing her resolve down. "This… This can't be real." The agony in his voice broke through all her walls and guards. She stared at him, all the cold words catching in her throat and melting into sobs. They gushed out of her and she stumbled to a chair, sitting down heavily and holding her head in her hands. She didn't care anymore; make him stop hurting so much.

Christian stared at her for a moment, then rushed over, kneeling in front of her and taking her hands in his.

"What happened?" He asked quietly. Satine leaned her head forward, their foreheads pressing together.

"Zidler… He… Told me something," she said softly. Light from the rising sun, pale and thin and weak, moved up the floor like water towards them, reflecting off the white walls. "I'm dying, Christian." Christian said nothing. His eyes widened in pain and one of his hands moved from her lap and moved to the back of her neck; a comforting pressure as it moved under her hair and touched her skin.

"That's why you fell? The first time we saw each other? And that's why you collapsed the first night we met?"

"Yes. Consumption." Satine said softly. Christian stroked her hair, squeezing her hand with his in her lap.

"We'll go someplace with good weather," he said softly. "Far away, so they won't find us. If… you are… dying," he swallowed, his voice breaking briefly. "We'll make the best of the time we have together." Satine smiled, tears filling her eyes.

"You mean it?" She asked shakily.

"As long as you're alright that I can't give you what you've dreamed of." He said this a bit bitterly, and Satine laughed a little. She kissed him lovingly, the pain in her chest easing and, when she drew away, breathless, she said, "You're what I've dreamed of, Love."

Satine walked quickly across the street, back to the Moulin Rouge, leaving Christian to finish packing. She would get as much jewelry as she could from her dressing room. Then she remembered the elaborate diamond necklace the Duke had gotten her and smirked. That would be all they'd need. A secret insult he'd probably never know about, but that would undoubtedly be immensely satisfying for her and Christian both.

She snuck through the halls, past hurrying workers, but she shouldn't have bothered; no one paid her any attention. She walked swiftly and silently up the stairs, into her room, and out of sight.

Grabbing a bag, she pawed through her clothing and chose the plainest, most unassuming dresses she had. They were in remarkably short supply, and she winced when she realized that she'd probably have to get more clothes. For now, the few dresses that didn't catch attention would have to do.

Then she went to her boudoir and took out the box that held the necklace in it. Opening it, she stared at the diamonds that glittered coldly in the pale morning light. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat as she thought of what this necklace symbolized. It was less a necklace and more a collar. Accepting it would have made her an object.

Hearing someone coming down the hall, she shoved the box into the bag and, just before the door opened, kicked it under her bed.

The Duke walked in, smirking. Satine's heart filled with hatred, but she covered it up easily. Surprising, actually, how easy it was to hide her disgust and loathing as she smiled at him. It had been impossible to hide her love for Christian. Perhaps love was simply more powerful than hatred.

_Oh, don't say 'perhaps' around Christian. He might have a stroke._

"My Dear," he said smugly. "You're looking lovely."

"Thank you, Dear Duke," she said, her voice taking on the same airy tone that it had before when she spoke with him. "I'm rather fond of this dress myself."

"Yes," the Duke said, obviously having no interest in the conversation. "I was told by Zidler that you'd spoken with the writer?"

"Yes," she said neutrally, turning away from him and shutting the doors of her boudoir softly.

"I see." The Duke walked up and wrapped his arms around her waist. She willed herself not to shove him away. "Well, rest assured that he won't be bothering us again." Satine froze.

"What do you mean?" She asked breathlessly, sliding out of his grip. He smiled in a way that made her heart stop.

"Go and see." Satine ran to the window and looked out of it. For a moment, there was nothing. Then the door of the apartment building burst open and two very large men walked out, lead by a third, dragging a desperately struggling Christian out into the street, towards a car parked by curb.

Satine couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. She heard the door close behind her, heard the lock click and the Duke laugh quietly, but she couldn't take her eyes off of the horrific scene unfolding in the street below.

Christian bit the arm of one of the men viciously, and when he instinctively shoved the smaller man away, Christian jerked out of the other man's grip and made a run for the Moulin Rouge.

The third man was quicker. In an instant, he caught Christian and dragged him back to the other two men in a headlock. As he did so, Christian's struggles became sluggish, and Satine sobbed helplessly when she realized he couldn't breathe.

The man released Christian, and the writer fell limply to his knees, heaving. The man lifted him up and as he did, he pinned Christian's arms behind his back. The man Christian had bitten punched Christian in the head with such force that Christian again fell to his knees.

The three pounded mercilessly on Christian, and Satine screamed and screamed as if it was she that was being beaten. Someone was pounding on the door, yelling her name, but the Duke ignored whoever it was.

Finally, the men dragged the limp, bloody Christian into the car trunk, got into the car, and drove off, leaving only a blood-smeared sidewalk behind.

Satine fell to her knees, her hands clutching the windowsill as sobs wracked her body. Coughs pounded at her chest, and her cries were agonizingly painful. The steps of the Duke echoed hollowly through the room as he walked over and patted her on the head.

"There there," he said, unable to keep the pleasure out of his voice. Satine felt a cold, icy feeling settle in her legs.

"Where are you taking him?"

"Back to his country. He came from England, you know."

"England. He's English." Satine said numbly as the cold feeling rose over into her stomach.

"Yes. He came to France from England," the Duke repeated. "He'll go back there, if he survives." The cold closed over her heart.

"If he survives." The coldness closed over her throat, and came into her tone, her voice. She stood; her legs were stronger than what she thought they'd be. She turned on him, the cold rage closed over her head, making things plain and clear for her. "I won't do the play, Duke." The Duke stared at her.

"Excuse me?" He asked.

"I won't do the play. I won't go with you. And," she pushed past him and took out the bag. She ripped out the box and threw it at his feet. "I won't take your _gifts._" She unlocked the door and opened it. "Now get out." The Duke's eyes bulged.

"How dare-" He started, but Satine cut him off, her voice cold and soft.

"What did you hope to accomplish, by taking the man I love? Was I to suddenly care? About _you_? Was I to give in to your wishes? What did you expect?" The Duke said nothing. "Get. Out." Stiff with rage, the Duke stalked towards the door, and Satine followed to slam it closed behind him. Before he left, he grabbed her arm and yanked her close.

"You'll regret this, Whore," he snarled. Satine's eyes narrowed.

"Try me." She said quietly. He shoved her away and walked out, closing the door hard behind him.

Satine stared at the door for a few moments, furious. Then the rage faded, and reality set in, cold and bitter. She staggered to the bed and sat down. The image of Christian, bloody and unconscious, was burned into her mind. She remembered his last desperate attempt to get to the Moulin Rouge. To her.

Then she held her head in her hands and wept.


	2. Chapter 1

_Twenty Years Later..._

"I don't see why you felt the need to bring Andre, Brother," Johann said with a small sigh as their carriage ambled along the roads of Paris. "From what you've said of the Moulin Rouge, it hardly seems an appropriate place to bring a young man." His son shot him an irritated look, but the Duke only smiled slightly.

"It will be a good lesson for him, I think," he replied. Johann raised a faint eyebrow.

"In investments, no doubt?" he said pointedly.

"No doubt."

Andre pursed his lips and let the two have their battle of wills. He looked out the window of the carriage, trying to get a better look at the-

_Oh..._

Andre jerked back and tried to squeeze down into the carriage as two scantily clad women waved and laughed. Johann sighed, reached over his mortified son, and closed the curtains of the carriage with a flick of the wrist. The mockingly dismayed sounds of the prostitutes followed them for a few more moments before they became laughter.

"Obviously your uncle has brought us to seek investment in a respectable establishment," Johann said dryly. "And not a brothel." The Duke laughed.

"Surely you've heard of the Moulin Rouge," he said.

"I have," Johann replied, inspecting the head of his cane idly. "More that it was falling fast."

"A tragic fire in 1915," the Duke said, the word 'tragic' undermined by the look of vast schadenfreude on his face. "Then the war. Life has not been kind to the Moulin Rouge, it's true." He leaned back in his seat. "But the owner, Zidler, has come to me with an arrangement. All past crimes forgotten, new faces, new songs, no _shenanigans._" The last word was more snarled than anything. Andre cringed back, eyeing his uncle's grip on his cane with no small amount of apprehension, but his father only sighed and placed a reassuring hand on Andre's arm.

"Of course, Brother," he said quietly.

()()()

The Moulin Rouge was... different than what Andre had expected. Not that he necessarily knew what he'd expected, but a gigantic red windmill wasn't it.

"Does it look very different, Brother?" Johann asked as they strode through the remarkably large courtyard.

"Not very." The Duke replied, not really interested in the line of questioning. The three men walked up the staircase and into the main hall, which took Andre's breath away. It was very much like an opera hall, with second floor balconies, a great stage, and a beautiful vaulted ceiling, only there were no seats to sit in on the main floor. Instead, it was a massive dance floor, made smooth and oddly glossy by hundreds of feet dancing on it for years.

Two people stood in the hall, talking quietly with one another. One was a large, gray-haired man about the same age as Andre's uncle and father, dressed a bright red suit that would have been flashy if it wasn't so frayed. The other was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen.

She was tall for a woman; mere inches shorter than Andre himself. She was very pale, almost unhealthily so, with very long, red hair that was threaded with gray, and her eyes were perhaps the most glorious shade of blue he'd ever seen. She wore a long, flowing gown of black silk, with her hair rippling over her shoulders in glossy waves. She looked down her nose at them all as they approached. She was icy, imperious, infinitely unimpressed.

The instant she and his uncle looked each other in the eye, the temperature around them dropped, and a crushing blanket of discomfort fell on them all. An icy, sharp, forced smile was pasted on her face, making it everything that much worse.

"My dear Duke," she said, as if the title was an insult. "What a pleasure."

"Indeed!" The portly man said with a voice full of forced cheer, reaching out to take the Duke's hand in his. "Truly! And who are...?"

"My brother," the Duke said tensely, allowing the man to shake his hand. "Johann. And my nephew, Andre." Johann shook the man's hand with some amusement, and gave the lady a small bow. Andre did the same.

"Harold Zidler, my good men!" Zidler boomed, beaming. "And this is the lady Satine!" Satine gave them a small, tense smile, nothing more than an extension of the one she'd 'graced' the Duke with. It made Andre feel rather cold, and definitely unwanted. "We're so glad you decided to come back, Your Grace. We're all very excited to bring back 'Spectacular Spectacular!'-"

"'Spectacular Spectacular!'?" Andre interrupted with a snort. "That's... quite a title."

"Very modest." Johann agreed, grinning at his son. Zidler took it in stride.

"And very accurate, I assure you! A masterpiece of the modern age, sadly lost to time!"

"And the agreements we made?" The Duke said pointedly. "The ending?" Satine looked at Zidler sharply.

"Just as we discussed, Your Grace," Zidler said in appeasing tones. "Just the ending you discussed." Satine blanched, and for a moment, Andre thought she was going to slap someone, or at least say something. She didn't. She gritted her teeth, swallowed hard, visibly shook with suppressed rage, but said nothing. The Duke nodded smugly.

"Excellent."

That night, the Moulin Rouge was alive with light and color and music. The music was what interested Andre the most. It was big and loud and fast, just like everything else.

There were lots of men down on the dance floor, twirling beautiful women around and getting very close, but there were women also. Few of them danced the way the men did, but there were just as many handsome young men who seemed to serve the same purpose as the women on the dance floor, just in a somewhat quieter way. A few of the men were even out with the male patrons, and a few women were lounging with the ladies. The implications made Andre's ears burn.

But neither his uncle nor his father were down there, thankfully. And neither was he, though that was disappointing. He sat on the upper balconies, far above the colorful throng, next to Satine as his father, Zidler and his uncle spoke in low voices about business prospects and funding and budgets.

A pretty waitress slide over and topped off their glasses. Andre's father had been keeping a fairly close eye, and had managed to keep the servers from filling Andre's own glass, but he was so engrossed in the conversation that Andre was able to get a glass of something that definitely was not wine, but was just as definitely alcoholic.

He took an experimental sip of the amber liquid, and promptly spat it back into the glass was a cough.

_Well, that was easily one of the most disgusting things I've ever had the misfortune of putting in my mouth..._ he thought as he pushed the glass away and pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"Not to your liking, my Lord?" Satine asked, looking wildly unsympathetic. Andre swallowed past the burn and shrugged. He wasn't entirely certain how he felt about Madam Satine. There was definitely bad blood between her and his uncle, but he honestly didn't see why that meant he had to get caught in the crossfire.

He thought he was delightful.

The song that had been playing below, a wordless, jazzy number, came to an end, and the lighting shifted. The place became dark save for the lights on the stage on the far end of the hall. The Duke, Zidler and Andre's father stopped talking in low voices as a hush fell over the crowd.

"Ah, my dear Duke," Zidler said, rubbing his hands together briskly. "This number will be an excellent chance for you and the other good gentlemen to see the actors that will be performing _Spectacular! Spectacular!_. After all, time passes. New blood, new faces, etc."

"I've worked with the girl who will be playing the Courtesan personally." Satine said, taking a sip of wine. "She'll be more than adequate."

"Quite so, quite so!" Zidler said. "Perhaps the young lad would like to meet-"

Before he could even finish the sentence, all at the same time, the three other adults spoke over him.

"Absolutely not." The Duke said coldly.

"I don't think that would be wise." Andre's father said at the same time, more firm than cold.

"Harold,_ please._" Satine hissed, sharp and with a faint note of desperation. Zidler actually _pouted._

"Alright, alright," he said, as if genuinely disappointed that he wasn't going to be able to set Andre up with a dancing girl. Andre barely resisted the urge to laugh as the band began to play, and he realized that a couple had gotten on stage.

_"Right, right, turn off the light_

_We gonna lose our minds tonight_

_What's the deal-i-o?"_

They were both about Andre's age, a boy and a girl. The boy was tall, dark haired and handsome, and dressed in what might have been a suit at some point, but now lacked a hat, jacket or tie. He still had the cane though, and was twirling it expertly.

The girl was tall as well, and dressed in something pale and glittery that left little to the imagination and showed a great deal of arm and leg, with a white sparkly top hat atop her golden haired head. Andre had to admit, if this was the girl Zidler had been thinking of introducing him to, he was disappointed that it wasn't going to happen. Even from on the balcony, it was obvious that she was simply gorgeous.

_"I love when it's all too much_

_Five a.m., turn the radio up_

_Where's the rock and roll?"_

"The young lady is Evangeline," Zidler said, sounding remarkably pleased with himself. "She will be filling the role of the Courtesan in this new production."

"She's... quite lovely." Andre heard something strange in his uncle's voice when he said that, but fought the urge to share a glance with his father.

"Indeed. She's our new shining star!" Zidler, having apparently either not noticed the tone or not cared, continued briskly. "And she's a fantastic actress, isn't she, Satine?"

"She has talent." Satine admitted.

_"Party crasher, panty snatcher,_

_Call me up if you a gangster_

_Don't be fancy, just get dance-y_

_Why so serious?"_

A brief pause, then the crowd exploded.

_"So raise your glass if you are wrong!_

_In all the right ways!_

_All my underdogs!"_

They all sang the chorus loudly and proudly, the two singers nearly drowned out by the drunken pride. The two danced on stage, Evangeline getting the cane from the boy and twirling and throwing it like a baton while he pumped his fist and lead the crowd.

_"We will never be, never be_

_Anything but loud!_

_And nitty-gritty_

_Dirty little freaks!"_

"And the boy?" The Duke asked. Again, there was something in his tone that Andre knew was not right, but now, it was colder, crueler. Andre looked at his father worriedly, but the man's face was a mask of composure and amused interest at the festivities below. Again, Zidler either didn't notice or paid it no mind.

"Emile. A big hit with the ladies. He'll be playing the Sitar Player; he and Evangeline have excellent chemistry, as you can see."

"Yes..." Andre felt a knot begin to form in his stomach as that same icy tone refused to leave his uncle's voice.

_"Won't you come on, come on and_

_Raise! Your! Glass!"_

The crowd chanted with Evangeline and Emile, who spun each other about on stage and laughed as if the world belonged to them.

_"RAISE! YOUR! GLASS!"_

"Who else is in the production?" Andre asked quickly, hoping to cut into it all before it built up steam. The whole table looked rather surprised at the fact that he'd spoken up, but Zidler beamed.

"Everyone, my dear boy, _everyone_. We have dozens of people for the chorus, dancers and singers, it's going to be-"

"Spectacular?" Andre prompted slyly. His father snorted into his wine glass as Zidler laughed appreciatively.

"Just so! And we've got a fantastic man for the role of the Maharajah." This he said pointedly to the Duke.

"No we don't." A young, female voice interrupted. Andre, along with the rest of them, turned to look.

Andre's heart slipped down into his stomach.

She was _beautiful._

Just as beautiful as Evangeline, but where Evangeline was white and gold, this girl was red and black. Her hair was long and dark and thick, her eyes were dark and rimmed with smoky makeup, her cheekbones were high, her nose was straight, her mouth was simply perfect, and her dress was long and full and crimson. She was like a dark angel of the night, a vampiress, and Andre was instantly smitten.

"What do you mean, 'No we don't'?!" Zidler asked, horrified. The girl shrugged.

"Jacque quit," she responded. It was a bit worrying, how much Andre wanted her to keep talking.

_I'm staring, I shouldn't be staring, staring at women is rude, doesn't matter if they work in a dance hall, it's rude rude rude._

"Why on earth did he quit?!" Zidler sounded as if he wanted to jump off the balcony. Andre saw twin looks of suspicion and interest on the faces of his uncle and father... and, just perhaps, the slightest hint of a smirk on Satine's face.

"He said Emile was stealing his thunder," the girl said, with the accompanying sigh one who does not have the patience to discuss stupidity. Andre had heard it a million times before from his father when some particularly foolish person attempted to convince him to invest in something.

"Was he?" Zidler asked, sounding dangerous for the first time. The girl laughed.

"Emile was Emile."

"So that's a yes." Satine said, sounding warm and amused for the first time since Andre had met her. The girl shrugged again, but there was a definite hint of mischievousness in her eyes.

Andre was relatively certain that he hadn't stopped staring yet.

Below them, the song had continued and the crowd had drowned out Evangeline and Emile in their own drunken rendition of the song, which was clearly a favorite. Now it was over, and the group was jolted out of their conversation by the tumultuous applause.

"That's my cue," the girl said cheerfully. Before she could leave, Andre thrust out his hand.

"I'm Andre," he said, terror making him unforgivably blunt. "Uh... that's... my name."_ oh my god stop talking what is wrong with you don't talk don't ever talk talking is not your strong suit you idiot._ But was just sitting there, holding his hand out like a chimp asking for coins any better?

She laughed. She was laughing at him. This was terrible.

"Christine," she said with a smile, and her teeth were remarkably white and straight. She gave him her hand to shake, but before he could back out, he pressed the back of it to his lips.

She beamed and went a bit red, and Andre had never been more relieved in his life.

"I hope you enjoy the show, Andre," she said, grinning back at him as she walked away. He found himself waving stupidly after her.

He turned back to the table and held his head in his hands.

"That was horrific," he mumbled into his hands. "Just kill me." He heard his uncle start laughing and felt every drop of blood in his body migrate to his face.

"It wasn't so bad, dear," Satine said, with a remarkable amount of sympathy in her tone. He felt her pat him on the shoulder, and wondered why was she being so nice all of a sudden.

"More of the Smouldering Temptress type, then?" Zidler asked, sounding as if he was grinning. Andre let his head fall against the table with a thud.

"The Maharajah...?" His father prompted, and Andre had never felt more grateful in his life as the topic switched from that train wreck of a meeting to the issue of the play.


	3. Chapter 2

Evangeline and Emile joined them on the upper balcony shortly after. Evangeline was even more lovely up close, with her honey colored hair and large green eyes, but after seeing Christine, she seemed too... bright, almost. Like sun on the snow.

Emile, on the other hand, was like a male Christine, with his dark blue eyes and thick black curls, only with slightly stronger features and a healthy amount of stubble. He sat next to Andre with a casual impudence, reaching for the glass of alcohol that Andre had abandoned before. Wallowing in self-pity as he was, Andre had almost missed it, but when he realized what was happening, he reached out and grabbed Emile's hand.

The table went rather quiet. Andre saw Satine freeze out of the corner of his eye.

"Don't drink that." Andre said, a bit too sharply. Emile got defensive.

"Why? You aren't drinking it." Andre tried not to visibly show just how poorly this evening was going.

"I tried it and it was really bad so I spit it back out into the glass," he said quickly and quietly, hoping that Emile and Emile only would hear the explanation. The boy stared for a long moment before bursting out laughing.

"That's fantastic!" He gasped, clutching at his stomach. "Eva, Eva! He-he spit it out!" Andre snatched the glass out of Emile's hand and began to regret just not letting him drink it. He snuck a glance at the others and found twin looks of irritated exasperation on his uncle and father's faces, and a very suspicious lack of expression on Zidler. Evangeline rolled her eyes.

"Emile, stop making fun," she chided. "What was it? Wine?"

"Not wine." Andre replied emphatically. Emile took hold of Andre's wrist and pulled the glass closer, sniffing at it. He reared back dramatically.

"Definitely not wine," he agreed, making a face. "Now I'm doubly grateful. I don't know who gave you that, but they may have wanted you dead."

"Emile." Zidler interrupted. The rotund man did not look happy, which was quite a feat, considering the fact that it seemed his natural state was joviality. "Jacques has apparently decided to leave our employ."

"Really?" Emile said, suddenly inspecting his fingernails with theatrical interest. "Told you he was no good."

"Told you twice." Evangeline agreed sagely. Zidler scowled at her as the Duke and his family watched the back and forth with interest.

"Poor bastard thought he was the star," Emile said, shaking his head. "Couldn't get it out of his head. Honestly; you'd have to be deaf, blind and dumb not to realize it's the Sitar Player's story." The majority of the more in-the-know eyes glanced at the Duke, whose jaw clenched visibly. Emile continued, heedless of the growing danger.

"After all, the Sitar Player is handsome, charming, dripping with raw charisma..."

"And who's playing the Sitar Player again?" Andre asked dryly. Emile grinned and gestured to himself.

"Can we focus?" Zidler said, the very picture of disbelief and exasperation. He turned to Satine. "Satine, can you make your son focus?!"

"Son?" The Duke asked sharply, looking from Zidler to Satine to Emile. If looks could kill, the one Satine gave Zidler would have laid low an army.

"Yes." She said, obviously furious. "Emile and Christine are mine."

"Twins," Emile said proudly. "She's my other half." He grabbed a glass of wine from a passing server and took a drink. "Anyway, it's not like the Maharajah is a rounded character. I mean, Zidler played him in the last production-"

"Careful, boy," Zidler growled. Andre agreed, eying his uncle's growing outrage with apprehension. Emile simply smiled in the face of growing ill-feeling, and Andre was amazed at the amount of obliviousness.

Yet he wasn't actually going to do anything until he saw the look on Satine's face. She looked... terrified. It made him feel a bit sick, to see that look on her face, and to know why.

"Do you think you could show me around?" Andre asked, trying to make the whole thing stop. It probably wasn't the best way to do it, but anything, _anything_ was better than this.

"Andre..." His father said quietly, but Emile and Zidler had already pounced on the idea.

"Yes, yes, Emile! Show the boy around!" Zidler said, swinging abruptly back into boisterousness. Emile grinned, stood, and grabbed Andre's arm.

"I don't think that's appropriate." Andre's father said pointedly, but Emile waved his hand dismissively.

"You're in the Moulin Rouge, Sir!" he said briskly. "It'd be a crime not to dance with a pretty girl." He paused, considering Andre for a moment. "Or a boy, I suppose. Not judging. Not my cup of tea, personally, but-"

"Nevermind." Andre said, trying to sit back down as Emile continued to ramble about sexual proclivities that he wasn't in a position to judge. "I think I'll just sit here, quietly."

"No no, come on." Emile dragged him to his feet. "No, keep the hat. Come on, hurry up, Christine's going to start singing soon and it'll be impossible for you to find a dance partner after the music starts up again. Don't drag your feet, you lump." Ignoring the affronted looks of the Duke and Johann, Emile pulled Andre away from the table and down the stairs towards the main dance hall.

"Not sure if it was your intention," Emile said, still not letting go of Andre's wrist as they got closer to the din of the crowd. "But thanks for getting me out of there."

"It was definitely my intention." Andre muttered. The dark haired boy laughed and stopped in the doorway, turning to straighten Andre's jacket and bowtie. "Was in your intention to antagonize my uncle?"

"In every sense of the word." Emile replied simply, and his dark blue eyes went a little cold.

_Wait, what?_

Before Andre could respond, Emile reached out into the crowd and seemed to pull a tiny, pretty brunette out of thin air.

"Madeline!" He said, back to being cheerful. "This is Andre, and he needs a dance partner. Care to do the honors?" The woman grinned up at him, her sparkly American flapper style dress glittering in the half-light as she took Andre's arm and pulled him close.

"Why, I'd be delighted." She said. Emile winked at Andre, and all three pushed out into the keening riot of color and sound together just as the opening chord of a new song echoed through and the audience quieted slightly.

_"Regrets collect like old friends_

_Here to relive your darkest moments_

_I can see no way, I can see no way_

_And all of the ghouls come out to play..."_

Andre looked up to the stage so quickly his neck shot with pain in protest.

That dark, low voice - the antithesis of Evangeline's sweet soprano - belonged to Christine. She stood on the stage, not dancing, just standing and looking out at the crowd. The spotlight made her skin seem almost luminous, her hair and dress all the darker. It made Andre's breath catch painfully.

_"And every demon wants his pound of flesh_

_But I like to keep some things to myself_

_I like to keep my issues strong_

_It's always darkest before the dawn_"

The drums began to pound and Madeline grabbed his hands. He broke himself out of his reverie and grinned, spinning her across the dance floor as the beat picked up.

_"And I've been a fool and I've been blind_

_I can never leave the past behind_

_I can see no way, I can see no way_

_I'm always dragging that horse around"_

"Look at the little rich boy!" Andre turned in surprise to Emile dipping some clearly older, clearly rich woman. "He can dance!" Madeline laughed, and despite the fact that it was a bit embarrassing, Andre laughed too. The whole atmosphere was so wild that it was impossible to get angry.

_"All of his questions such a mournful sound_

_Tonight I'm gonna bury that horse in the ground_

_I like to keep my issues strong_

_It's always darkest before the dawn"_

Again, just like before, the crowd picked up the chorus, but this time, it was more respectful, less bawdy. More like backup singers than a drunken audience.

_"Shake it out, shake it out!_

_Shake it out, shake it out!_

_Ooh woah!_

_Shake it out, Shake it out!_

_Shake it out, shake it out!_

_Oo woah!_

_And it's hard to dance with the devil on your back_

_So shake him off!_

_Oo woah!"_

Madeline was singing with her as they danced, though honestly it wasn't any dance Andre had been actually taught. It was a play-by-ear, more twirling and spinning and wild, thoughtless movement than anything else. Andre saw very brief flashes of Emile and his older dance partner, but more than anything it was him and Madeline.

_"And I am done with my graceless heart_

_So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart_

_'Cause I like to keep my issues strong_

_It's always darkest before the dawn!_

_"Shake it out, shake it out!_

_Shake it out, shake it out!_

_Ooh woah!_

_Shake it out, shake it out!_

_Shake it out, shake it out!_

_Ooh woah!_

_And it's hard to dance with the devil on your back_

_So shake him off!_

_Ooh woah!"_

The beat grew a little slower, but the dancing didn't. At some point, Andre's hat had flown off, but a hand reached out and placed it on Madeline's head. She spun closer to him, so that there was almost no space between them, her arms about his neck and a wicked smile on her face.

_"And I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't!_

_So here's to drinks in the dark, at the end of my rope_

_And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope!_

_It's a shot in the dark, and right at my throat,"_

His heart pounded furiously, though whether it was from the dancing or from the proximity was quite beyond Andre to figure out at this point. Her hands cupped his throat and her hips swayed an inch away from his own. He swallowed hard, but couldn't bring himself to look away from her rich brown eyes.

_"Looking for heaven found the devil in me_

_(Ooh woah!)_

_Looking for heaven found the devil in me_

_(Oo woah!)_

_Well, what the hell, I'm gonna let it happen_

_To me, ooh!"_

Just like before, the audience exploded with sound and movement. Rather than dance, they simply_ jumped_, arms in the air, screaming out the chorus. Madeline did the same, still outrageously close, until Andre finally just gave in and started jumping too, much to her appreciative laughter.

_"Shake it out, shake it out!_

_Shake it out, shake it out!_

_Oo woah!_

_Shake it out, shake it out!_

_Shake it out, shake out!_

_Oo woah!_

_And it's hard to dance with the devil on your back_

_So shake him off!_

_Oo woah!"_

Andre wrapped his arms around Madeline's waist and spun her around, and she laughed and laughed, her arms still around his neck. Andre stumbled to a halt facing the stage and found himself gasping for air and looking up at Christine.

She was leading the audience in one last rendition of the chorus, before sliding into wordless vocals as the music quieted and the audience began to sway rather than flail and grind. The lights dimmed dramatically, black and red confetti fell from the ceiling, and a new, slow, soft tune began to play. Christine stood tall and proud on the stage as the spotlight became the only light in the hall. She looked beautiful, radiant, like something out of a dream.

Andre couldn't stop staring, and watched in fascination as she began to sing again, slower and softer this time.

_"Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation_

_Darkness stirs and wakes imagination_

_Silently the senses abandon their defenses_

_Helpless to resist the notes I write_

_For I compose the music of the night."_

He was staring again, but he wasn't the only one, not by a long shot. No one danced, no one sang along. He felt Madeline's arm wrap around his waist and her chin hook on his shoulder, but when he glanced at her, she was watching Christine with as much rapt attention as he was.

_"Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor_

_Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender_

_Turn your face away from the garish light of day_

_Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light_

_And listen to the music of the night."_

Andre found himself unable to really think. He thought this might be what being drugged or drunk felt like. Everything was oddly hazy and moving was suddenly too much of a bother. All he wanted to do was stand and stare and listen. Mostly listen.

_"Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams_

_Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before_

_Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar..."_

The note hung in the air, high and clear. A collective sigh hissed through the hall in the moment of silence after the note faded and the music paused.

_"And you'll live as you've never lived before."_

The music began again, more strings than brass. Christine's eyes were closed as she gestured gracefully, a smile gracing her features.

_"Slowly, deftly, music shall caress you_

_Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you_

_Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind_

_In the darkness that you know you cannot fight_

_The darkness of the music of the night"_

A piano began to play with the strings as Christine raised her arms delicately, gesturing out and around.

_"Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world_

_Leave all thoughts of the live you knew before_

_Let your soul take you where you long to be...!"_

The word echoed triumphantly through the hall, and again, there was silence. The audience hung on her every note, and despite the tension, Andre felt oddly relaxed.

_"Only then can you belong to me."_

The band began again, and Christine's expression and manner changed subtly. It became less... aloof, and more sensual. Andre swallowed hard as her dark, smoky eyes flickered across the hall before landing on him.

_"Floating, falling, sweet intoxication._

_Touch me, trust me,_

_Savor each sensation._

_Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in,_

_To the power of the music that I write..."_

_She's singing __**at**__ you, not __**to**__ you, idiot._

_"The power of the music of the night!"_

With that final crescendo, the music swelled, the drums beat, and the audience began to applaud. It was slow, as if they were coming out of a trace, but like the beginnings of a rainstorm that became a downpour, it became deafening. She bowed, smiling wide and bright.

"She's good, isn't she?" Madeline said directly into Andre's ear, so that she would be heard over the din. Andre nodded, staring after Christine as she walked off the stage without preamble. "She doesn't usually sing. She likes fancy pants stuff like writing and painting; doesn't usually fit with the tone." She shrugged. "But the audience likes it. Makes her more mysterious." Andre nodded slowly before turning back to her. He smiled.

"Thank you for the dance, Mademoiselle," he said, and Madeline smiled an unbearably sweet smile.

"It was my pleasure."

Andre took her hand and grinned.

"Want to go again?"

()()()

Emile appeared shortly after that to drag Andre back up to the balcony. Andre was rather sad to see the place go, not just because he'd been having so much fun dancing with Madeline, but because he'd been half-hoping that Christine would appear again. She never did.

"We'll give you a few days, Zidler," the Duke was saying icily when Andre and Emile got to the upper floor. "But if you cannot find a replacement by then, we won't waste any more time or money." Zidler nodded frantically, and glared at Emile, clearly laying the blame on him for all the troubles. If Emile was at all guilty about it, he didn't show it.

"Here's your boy!" He said, lightly shoving Andre back towards his family. "He danced like a dream." Andre rolled his eyes and avoided the eyes of his father and uncle.

"I'm sure he did." Zidler said, sounding unamused. "Your Grace, would you like to come back tomorrow and see what we can show you? I'm sure you'll be impressed."

"Hmm..." The Duke considered, frowning. "Very well. Tomorrow."


End file.
